


A Far Greater Sin (Reader version)

by Yavannie



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Blindfolds, F/M, First Kiss, Flimsy Grasp On Lore, Fluff and Smut, Getting Creative With Canon, Healing, Minor Original Character(s), No use of y/n, Rulebending, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Soft Din Djarin, Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding, nursed back to health, vaguely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28322391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Or, five times the Mandalorian kept his helmet on, and one time he had to bend the rules.You are the child apprentice to a healer in the Outer Rim Territories. Since the Royalty of the planet are fiercely protective of their identities, the healers are trained to work blindfolded when needed. One day, a couple of Mandalorians arrive, seeking out the aid of your master. The younger one piques your curiosity, and you start befriending him, but the next morning they're both gone. Ten years later, when you're a young woman and a healer in your own right, you meet the Mandalorian again. Over the years, you keep bumping into one another...No use of Y/N - female reader.This is a reworked version of my Din/OC fic with the same title, for those who prefer reader fic. It's my first attempt at reader fic - ever since entering the Mandalorian fandom I've been curious to try it out. If you prefer a story with an OC, you can find the other versionhere.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 19
Kudos: 181





	A Far Greater Sin (Reader version)

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly self-indulgent, written for me, myself and I because *waves indistinctly* Din Djarin. Has not been technical-betaed, but many, many thanks to a certain Raptorlily for putting up with my flailing, for your thoughts and for supplying me with GIF content in times of need (which is all the time). I'm yavannie on tumblr and I've spent too many hours on Wookieepedia when I could have been watching The Clone Wars ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The first time you meet a Mandalorian, you’re still a child, no more than ten years old. You’ve been an apprentice with Ma Eyla for little more than a year.

Two of them arrive, on a battered ship, landing at dawn in the clearing near the huts. A man, stumbling across the uneven ground as though blind, and a youngling in armor that looks pieced together from scraps, supporting his companion even though he’s limping badly himself. They both wear helmets with narrow, evil-looking slits to see through. You’re not fazed. A year ago you might have been, but since then you’ve seen much and more. Ma Eyla doesn’t discriminate; she treats anyone who seeks her help and is willing to pay their due.

Alerted by the noise, Ma Eyla herself steps out of the med hut, and immediately starts rolling up her sleeves.

“Ready two beds,” she says to you, and hurries over to help the pair. 

You know better than to dawdle. You run into the med hut and start tearing the covers off two cots, but before you can even start preparing the table, Ma Eyla slams the door open, dragging the grown man along.

“See to the boy,” she snaps as she helps the man up on a bed. “And don’t come in here. Under _any_ circumstances.”

You nod mutely and start backing out of the room. The last thing you see before you stumble backwards over the threshold is Ma Eyla tying a piece of cloth over her eyes - the blindfold that is usually reserved for when she’s treating Royalty.

The boy is sitting on the ground outside, leaning against the wall, clearly exhausted.

“Where are you hurt?” you ask, kneeling by his side.

The boy turns his head, helmet still in place, to look at you. At least you think he’s looking. He says nothing, so you let your gaze sweep over him. It’s pretty obvious – his left leg is covered in blood. _And he did limp_ , you think to yourself.

“Here?” you ask, reaching for him.

“You’re just a child,” he says, his voice tinny and strange from underneath the helmet. He pulls his leg away with a wince.

“I am not,” you say indignantly. “And if I am, then so are you.”

He doesn’t answer that, so you shuffle closer and fold up his pant leg. There’s a deep gash there – a slash or bite of some kind – and it’s still bleeding. 

“It’s not too bad,” you say. “I’m just going to stop the bleeding and then Ma Eyla will fix you right up when she’s done with your friend. Alright?”

Somehow the helmet manages to look dubious.

“Alright,” he says at length.

You tie the wound tight, fetch an empty box from the store room to prop his leg up, and then offer him tea, as is customary. The boy tips his head down, as if in disbelief.

"No thanks," he says.

You drink your own tea and eye him curiously. It strikes you that you haven’t introduced yourself, so you tell him your name.

"What's _your_ name?" you ask when he doesn’t return the courtesy.

"I'm Mandalorian," he says.

"That's a strange name."

"It's not a name," the boy says, sounding impatient.

“Are you a Royal?” you ask.

The boy snorts at that. “No,” he says.

Clearly he is not in a talking mood, so you wrap your arms around your legs and go back to silently scrutinizing every square inch of the strange boy. He may not be a child, exactly, but he can't be that much older than you. Thirteen or fourteen at the most. If you could hear his voice properly then maybe you could guess better.

"Aren't you going to take that off?" you ask, looking at his helmet.

"No," he replies.

"Why?" 

"This is the way."

You nod. Something about the way he says it makes it clear that this is not up for debate.

You both sit in silence for a while, watching the moons of Rion slowly rise and set in the pale morning sky. Then the peace is interrupted by a distinct growling from the boy's stomach.

"Are you hungry?" you ask.

"It's fine," he replies.

You think for a minute about how to solve this conundrum. "You can eat in my hut," you say finally, getting to your feet and offering him your hand. "There's some breakfast left. I'll leave you alone, I promise. I suppose you do need to take that off to eat?"

"Yes," he admits. "But…"

He keeps up the lame protests as you pull him up and help him inside the apprentice’s hut. Then you rummage around for the leftovers. 

“It’s not much,” you say apologetically, looking at the meagre spread on the bedside table once you’ve collected what you can. “I’ll cook later, for you and your master.”

“Thank you,” he says, and then you leave him in peace.

* * *

By the time Ma Eyla has finished treating the boy, the sun has begun to set over the clearing. As is customary, the patients are offered food and beds for the night.

“What are they?” you ask Ma Eyla as you make up the cots in the med hut with fresh sheets.

“They’re Mandalorians,” says Ma. “Fierce warriors, very dangerous. But they have some honor, and they always pay their due. You have nothing to fear from them.”

Later that night, you lie awake, unable to sleep. Outside the hut, you can hear the voices of the man and the boy, sitting by the fire. Silently, you slide out of bed, pad over to the door and crack it open, just a sliver. They both still have their helmets on, even though it’s just the two of them. 

“Is she really her daughter?” you hear the boy say, and a nervous thrill flutters through your chest, knowing they’re talking about you. 

“Unlikely,” the man grunts. 

“They don’t look alike, but she calls her Ma…”

“That’s just what they call their healers,” says the man. “Maybe it’s part of their religion, I don’t know. I’ve heard Ma Eyla talk about some moon mother or other.”

You suppress a giggle at that. Clearly he knows nothing about you or Ma.

“Why did we come here anyway?” complains the boy. “It’s all so primitive. These huts, these weird plants and salves… A cauterizer would have fixed me up ten times faster.”

“That leg of yours will heal cleaner than anything helped by laser, boy,” the man says gruffly. “Besides that, the healers of Rion are some of the very few people who work blindfolded on a regular basis. There’s Royalty here that demands it. Out of those few, Ma Eyla is the best. You’ll do well to remember this place, foundling. The healers take an oath to help anyone in need, so long as they pay their due. They pass no judgement, and even though they serve mainly the peoples of Rion, they are familiar with our ways. So remember it. Especially if you ever screw up like I did and end up getting blindworms from a kriffin’ clawbird.”

“Are they gone?” asks the boy.

“The worms? Aye, she got rid of them.”

They fall quiet, and for a while the only thing you can hear is the crackling of the fire.

“Did you…” the boy starts. “Did you remove it?”

Another silence.

“Aye.”

The boy scrambles to his feet. “But it’s forbidden!”

“She never saw my face.”

“But we must never… Not in front of another. This is the way!”

“It depends, foundling.”

“On what?”

“On whether you care to live!” says the man sharply. 

“I’d rather die,” the boy mutters, sitting down by the fire again, now a little further from the man. “This is the way.”

It’s a long while before you finally fall asleep that night, the strange boy occupying your thoughts until the sky outside the window starts turning grey.

When Ma Eyla shakes you awake the next morning, the boy and his companion have already left.

* * *

The second time you meet the Mandalorian, you’re a young woman of nineteen, and already known to the people of Rion as “Ma”. It’s a good life, with steady work pouring in as the healer and midwife of three growing villages. In addition, the Royals keep you well provided as you regularly tend to their youngest – a sickly infant with ear problems and a perpetual cough. An oath is an oath, though, and you still offer aid to anyone who asks and who can pay their due.

Even a Mandalorian.

He arrives in the mid-morning, on foot, his ship presumably hidden somewhere in the forest. Since your first encounter with the man and the boy, you’ve met a handful of them, a couple more than once, but this one – a young man by the look of him – you’re sure you’ve never seen him before.

“Greetings,” you say, wiping your hands on your apron and getting to your feet.

He stops a little way away, tilting his helmet slightly in a questioning way.

“It’s you,” he says at length.

You feel a shiver along your spine. “Have we met before?”

“We have."

Your eyes flit over his armor. You don't recognize it, but there’s _something_ about him… And then it strikes you.

"You're the boy!" you say, your face cracking into a smile. "Aren't you? From all those years ago."

He stands motionless, his helmet betraying nothing.

"Yes," he says cooly. "Where is Ma Eyla?”

“Passed since four years,” you say. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says the Mandalorian.

“It was her time.”

“Well,” says the Mandalorian, looking down at his gloved hands with a sigh. "Thank you anyway."

He turns around to leave.

"Wait," you call after him. He stops, but doesn't turn around. "You must have come a long way, Mandalorian. What was your business with Ma Eyla?"

"I'm in need of a skilled healer," he says, turning his head a fraction of an inch.

You roll your eyes inwardly. "Then you've come to the right place," you say evenly. "You'll find no better healer on all of Rion."

* * *

It’s his hands. Beneath the gloves, they’re crusted with blood, his palms and fingers shredded with fresh wounds.

“What happened?” you ask, turning his right hand this way and that underneath the worklight.

“I had to make a quick exit from the fifth floor of a prison,” he says. “Grabbed hold of whatever I could on the way down.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Was it a barbed wire, by any chance?”

“...Yes.” Even through the modulator, he sounds embarrassed. “Ruined my best pair of gloves, too. I tried using the cauterizer–” he motions at his thumb, where a lump of scarring speaks volumes, “–but I’m not very good with my left hand. Besides, I think they’re going...numb.”

It takes you the best part of the day to meticulously clean and trim his wounds, to fuse together muscle and nerve that has been severed, and to finally work salve into the gashes.

“By morning they will be considerably better,” you say as you tie the final knot to his bandages. “I’ll redress them then, and you can be on your way.”

“Thank you,” says the Mandalorian, a depth of sincerity to his voice. “What do I owe you?”

“What do you think it’s worth?” you ask, sitting up and arching your aching back. 

The Mandalorian seems distracted for a moment. “Your help has been invaluable,” he says then, turning his bandaged hands this way and that. “Name your price.”

“That’s up to you to decide,” you say. “I’m bound by oath to accept whatever you offer.”

He turns away in frustration, then lowers his voice. “Help me out here. What do people usually pay?”

You smile, then think for a few seconds. “Money is of little use to me right now. Do you have anything else? Some precious metal, perhaps? Rare plants or herbs from other worlds?”

“Sadly not,” says the Mandalorian earnestly. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need your help again.”

In the end you accept a generous stack of credits that will no doubt gather dust in a drawer, before preparing him a meal and leaving him in peace to eat.

* * *

The next day, you unwrap his hands in the light of the morning sun. They are handsome hands; strong and tan, despite presumably not seeing a whole lot of sunlight. The wounds are healing well, the salve doing the Mother’s work. You redress the scars again and give him a small jar of ointment.

“Rub into the skin, twice daily until you run out, like so,” you say, letting your fingers run circles across his palms. “Cover the scarring until it’s fully healed if possible.”

The Mandalorian flexes his fingers, nodding slowly. Then he turns his visor towards you. “Thank you.”

You watch him as he leaves, curious of who is really under that helmet.

* * *

The third time you meet the Mandalorian, years later, it's in the unlikeliest of places. A group of Royals have undertaken a journey to the distant world of Cantonica; a desert planet that seems to run entirely on seedy business deals and games of hazard. The sprawling city of Canto Bight is the heart of the planet, but while its veins are glamourous gambling halls, its lifeblood is corrupted cash. To this hellhole, the Royals have decided to bring their sickly son. You've been promised a dizzying amount of money to accompany them in case he falls ill, but you're starting to regret your decision. 

It’s all surface, you think as you watch the city from high up on the walkway balcony that encircles the hotel. The lights twinkle and gleam, and you can hear the distant noise from the casino downstairs. One of the Royals, a younger brother to the queen as you understand it, is deep in debt. His brilliant solution? To _gamble_ it back. You sigh and lift your gaze until it meets the ocean on the distant horizon. It glitters seductively, reflecting the light of thousands of stars sprinkled across the night sky. Like everything else in this city, the ocean is - of course - fake.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?,” someone says behind you.

Somewhere deep inside, you know even before you turn around. The voice is metallic and distorted, and could belong to any number of helmet-clad individuals. But somehow you _know_. 

You turn around. You’re right.

“Mandalorian,” you say, unable to conceal the honest shock in your voice.

“Well met,” he says, inclining his head slightly. 

His armor is a little different from last time. Some pieces have been replaced, and there’s a menacing looking weapon slung across his back. And yet it is unmistakably him. For a minute, all you can do is stare in muted surprise.

“What are you doing here?” you say, finally finding your voice again.

“Business – what else?” he says, sounding almost amused. “This cesspool provides plenty of low-hanging fruit for a bounty hunter.”

“Bounty hunter,” you say, tasting the words. “I suppose it’s a vocation that’s always in demand.”

The Mandalorian snorts. “What about you?” he asks then. “Have you given up your oath?”

You can’t be sure, of course, but you imagine his gaze is lingering on your bare shoulders. Suddenly you feel self-conscious. At home, you wear practical garb, made for practical work. Here, you’ve been lended a gown of sorts, _to blend in_ , as the Royal servant who dumped it in your lap so delicately put it. It hangs from your neck, sleek and smooth, its fabric catching against your fingertips whenever you touch it. 

“No,” you say, resisting the urge to cross your arms and hide your shapes. “I’m here tending to a young Royal. He’s sickly, and they won’t let him travel without a healer.”

“A Royal,” the Mandalorian repeats, a steely note in his voice. “Not a duke, by any chance?”

"No," you say with a frown. "He's a prince."

"A child, then?"

“Yes, a boy of ten.”

His shoulders sink as if relief, then he steps up to the balustrade and leans forward to rest his arms on it. For a while you stay there in companionable silence.

"You should go back to Rion," says the Mandalorian suddenly.

"I wish I could," you say with a little laugh.

"You can," he says. "I'll take you. Gather up your things and meet me at the landing pad in half an hour."

"What?" you ask, shaking your head in confusion. “I didn’t mean–” 

"Trust me." Even through the modulator, you can hear the urgency in his voice.

"I don't trust you," you say, a chill of discomfort making the hairs on your arms stand on end despite the balmy desert evening. You take a step back. "Why are you–”

But before you can finish the sentence, the sharp sound of plasma shots being fired whistles through the air, and you’re knocked to the ground by something heavy – the Mandalorian, you realize where you’re lying face down on the smooth stone floor, trying to catch your breath. Around you, people are running and screaming and you curl into a ball to avoid getting trampled. In the distance, you can see the shooter – a hooded figure with two blaster guns who’s currently lowering both weapons to aim right for you and the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian gets to his feet far quicker than his armor should allow, smoothly dodging the rounds pinging off the marble pillars around them. He slings his polearm rifle over his shoulder and takes aim. It only takes one shot.

The silence that follows is deafening. The walkway which had been bustling just seconds ago is now completely empty. From far away, music, chatter and raucous laughter from the streets below slowly filter through to your ears.

"Let's go get your things," says the Mandalorian, reaching down for you.

You grab his arm and he gets you to your feet with ease, then starts pulling you towards the nearest doorway. 

“Hang on a second,” you say, shaking yourself loose. “I’m not just leaving this job unfinished. And certainly not with someone who’s…” you shake your head, trying to get your bearings. “Someone who’s getting shot at,” you finish firmly.

He tilts his helmet. “They weren’t shooting at me,” he says.

You frown, opening your mouth, but finding yourself lost for words. Then the Mandalorian whips his head around, seemingly staring at the wall.

“Guards,” he grunts. “Hold on tight."

And with that he loops his left arm around you, pulling you firmly against his cold, hard armor. Then he lifts his free arm and fires off a wire that sails upwards with a high pitched whirring until it catches on a ledge many floors above you.

"Wh–" you begin, before the air is knocked out of you once more.

All things considered, it's just as well that your lungs are empty, because you’ve never been more ready to scream. Instead, you gulp uselessly as you soar upwards. Despite the Mandalorian’s vise-like grip on you, you can feel yourself slipping, sliding, and you grapple for purchase, your fingers finding nothing but smooth metal. Just when you're sure you're going to fall to your death, you swing inwards and tumble onto a balcony.

“You okay?” says the Mandalorian.

“No,” you gasp as you struggle into a sitting position. The world feels lopsided and your ears are ringing.

“Stay there,” he says, as if you've really got a choice in the matter.

He unholsters a smaller blaster and makes quick work of the lock on the balcony door, then slips inside. You close your eyes, willing your breathing to slow and your head to stop spinning. You've just about managed to work out up from down and left from right and stand up again when the Mandalorian returns.

“It’s safe, let’s go.”

You follow him closely through a dark, unoccupied hotel suite, then through the door to the hallway beyond. It looks identical to the one that houses the Royals and their entourage. 

“Where are you staying?” asks the Mandalorian.

“Fifty-third floor.”

“Elevator,” he says, nodding to an alcove a short distance away.

“What is going on here?” you ask as you wait for the elevator to arrive. “If he wasn’t shooting at you, then…” you trail off. 

“Your friend, the duke,” says the Mandalorian. “He owes people money. The wrong people. And now those people are trying to get at him. That guy down there was no guild member, and I’ll bet you anything he didn’t come alone. You should get out of here.”

There’s a soft _ding_ , and the elevator doors slide open. Thankfully it’s empty, and you make a point of standing as far away from him as possible.

“Why would they care about me?” you ask as the elevator sails smoothly upwards. “I’m nobody.”

“Correct,” says the Mandalorian, and against all reason, you feel a twinge of irritation that he agrees. “But unlike the Royals themselves, you’re an easy target,” he goes on. “The blasters were set to stun. Likely he was going to use you as bait." 

"Bait," you repeat, glaring at him.

"Or perhaps make you show him the way," he says, the smallest hint of amusement in his voice.

As the elevator bell sounds again, your eyes go wide as you realize what you've just done. 

"No," you say as the words _bounty hunter_ echo in your mind. “No, no, no.”

You hurry over to the control panel and start pushing buttons at random, trying to get the elevator moving again, but the Mandalorian simply wedges his foot against the sliding door and takes your arm in a firm grip.

“Listen,” he says, talking quietly and quickly. “I’m your best shot. Yes, the duke is my mission too, but I’ll do my best to bring him in _alive_. I know who else is after him, and trust me, they’ll make no such promises.”

You stare at his visor, trying to somehow penetrate that black slit with your gaze. Then you yank your arm free and step out of the elevator.

“The Royal quarters are over there,” you say, nodding towards where the luxury suites are located. “I’m going to my room.”

With that, you turn on your heel and start walking.

“Landing pad, twenty minutes,” he calls after you.

You pretend not to hear him.

When you enter your room, Noonie – one of the many Royal maids, and presumably the most inconsequential one since she’s been housed with you – is sitting on her bed with a book in her hands. She ignores you pointedly. During their week-long stay on Cantonica, Noonie has only ever talked to you when she’s had to, or when she’s been especially bored.

“You should pack up your things,” you say to her.

"Why?" says Noonie lazily, turning the page without looking up.

You shrug. "A hunch?" 

Noonie simply raises an eyebrow and reads on. 

_Twenty minutes_ , you think, and start throwing your belongings into your bag. When you're done, you sit on the bed and wait.

It starts mere minutes after, with a distant shout. Noonie looks up, throwing you a glance somewhere between worried and annoyed, as if this is somehow your fault. Then there’s shots, and more screaming, and finally some kind of explosion in the distance that makes the floor shake and the windows rattle.

“What was that?” asks Noonie, her voice shaky and small.

“Someone blew something up,” you say, praying to the Mother that the Mandalorian wasn’t involved – on either end.

You hurry over to the door, listen for a while and then stick your head out into the corridor. The Royal quarters further down the hall are dust-filled and you can see armed, hemlet-clad men running into smoke that’s billowing out from a room. You can’t tell if they’re guards or something much, much worse. There’s something nudging at your arm, and you look down to find Noonie peeping out under your elbow, hunched down and shaking.

“This is my night off and I’m not going out there,” she says, and then quickly retreats into the room again.

“Me neither,” you mumble to yourself. 

You close the door and lock it carefully, then turn off the lights. And then you wait.

The minutes drag on as the two of you listen in tense silence to the noise outside; you waiting by the door while Noonie hides behind her bed. _Twenty minutes_. Surely they’ve passed by now. At last the clamor dies down, and you risk another peek out into the corridor. It’s empty.

“I think we should go,” you say over your shoulder.

“Are you insane?” Noonie hisses. “I’m staying here!”

“Fine,” you say, grabbing your bag. 

“Where are you going?” Noonie whines, her voice bordering on hysterical.

“To find someone who knows what’s going on.”

The lights in the corridor are pulsating in red and blue, like some kind of silent alarm. You jog down the corridor to where the prince’s room is. The door is open, and a quick glance inside confirms it’s empty. You hug your bag tightly, considering your options. One thing is clear; you can’t stay here.

By some miracle, the elevator seems to still be functioning, and you press the button for the hotel lobby with a trembling hand. Some twenty floors down, the elevator stops to let a couple of Caskadags on. One of them eyes you curiously, his gaze lingering on your soiled dress, and you briefly regret not taking the opportunity to get changed. Before the doors close again, you note that this floor seems perfectly peaceful – no blinking lights, no dust-covered carpets.

Arriving at the lobby, you expect at least _some_ kind of commotion, some sign that there’s been an explosion, probably a kidnapping and possibly _murders_ higher up in the building. But people are mingling and chatting here, drifting leisurely in and out of the gambling hall. Then you see them; a troop of fifteen or more guards, jogging towards the elevator, blasters at the ready. You brace yourself, keeping your eyes on the ground as you make your way towards the exit as calmly as possible. You pass through the gleaming doors and just as you think you've made it, a guard posted outside the hotel does a double take.

“Hey,” he says. “Aren’t you with–”

You don’t wait around to hear the rest, but hike up your dress and run without looking back.

You run on instinct, hoping your sense of direction and vague memory of the city layout will lead you right. Whenever you can, you turn onto the smaller streats, weaving your way through downtown Canto Bight. You don't stop until you reach the landing pad, your sides aching and with a taste of metal in your mouth. You can’t be sure, but it seems like you've managed to shake off anyone following you. Leaning against a wall, you look around at the spaceships, some parked, some landing, some taking off. It strikes you that you have no idea what the Mandalorian’s ship looks like. In any case, he gave you twenty minutes and you've easily taken double that to make your way here.

Then, joy of joys, you spot the Royal cruiser pulling out from a covered port, revving its engines.

“Hey!” you shout, running towards it and waving your arms. “I’m down here!”

You can see the captain through the windshield, can see him watching you. Next to him, in the co-pilot seat, is a Royal, wearing the traditional garb and helm that shields them from prying eyes. You look on in horror as the Royal turns to gaze at you only to gesture dismissively. The captain throws you another glance, then shrugs before hitting the thrusters and rising smoothly from the platform.

“Hey!” you shout again, even though it’s no use. “You assholes!” you hiss between clenched teeth, throwing your bag down on the ground in frustration.

Seconds later you’re forced to gather it up again and scramble to the side as a ship comes in for landing. It looks like a heap of junk, and most definitely not like it belongs to the average Canto Bight patron. Even more surprisingly, it doesn’t land, but hovers nearby and swivels around to lower the cargo hold flap. After a moment, the Mandalorian appears in the opening, waving impatiently at you.

You only hesitate for a second before rushing forward, throwing your bag on board and then climbing in after it.

“Come on, come on,” he urges, and you stumble after him through the cramped ship until you reach the cockpit. 

“Strap yourself in,” says the Mandalorian while he practically jumps into the pilot’s seat.

You barely have time to sit down before the ship soars forward off the landing pad, the hull groaning ominously. You fumble with your seatbelt and only just manage to fasten it before the Mandalorian forces the ship to dive spectacularly down towards the ocean, presumably to gain speed, before turning skyward again. 

“Is anyone following us?” you yell over the roar of the engines.

He doesn’t reply, and you soon have enough on your plate trying to keep dinner down as you jet out of the atmosphere of Cantonica with an immense rumble. In the ghostly and sudden silence that follows, your stomach keeps roiling.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” you groan.

The Mandalorian whips his head around, the helmet managing to exude panic. “Please don’t,” he says.

You close your eyes and try to focus on your breathing until that awful feeling in your belly dies down.

“Thank you for waiting,” you say, opening your eyes again.

“What took you so long?” he asks brusquely. “I had to circle the place for half an hour.”

“I didn’t expect you to stick around,” you snap back. Then you clear your throat, forcing yourself to calm down. “But I’m glad you did. My other ride...”

“I saw them,” he says in a short voice. 

You fold your arms across your chest. “I won’t be doing business with them again.”

“No you won’t,” says the Mandalorian quietly. Before you can ask what he means, he goes on, “Ready for the jump?”

“She has a functioning hyperdrive?” You ask incredulously. 

He raises a warning finger. “Do not disrespect her. Hold on tight, now. Next stop Rion.” 

* * *

The journey to Rion is not overly long, but it will still take the best part of a day. As soon as the Mandalorian has set the course, he disappears into the back of the ship to his sleeping quarters to get some rest, while you curl up with a rough blanket in the passenger seat to do the same. 

The turbulent evening haunts you and your mind keeps going in circles as you wait for sleep to take you. You worry about the Royals; if you’ll ever get paid as promised, if the prince is all right, and if the duke escaped. He’s obviously not on board this ship – you would have noticed. You worry fleetingly about Noonie, too. She may have been snooty and unpleasant, but she deserved better. Hopefully she’ll be able to use her servant skills to get a job somewhere in Canto Bight, you muse. 

In the end you drift off without noticing, and the next thing you know, the Mandalorian is shaking you awake with a gloved yet gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Not long to go now,” he says and hands you a box of rations before he slumps into the pilot’s seat and starts fiddling with the ship’s computer.

You eat with one hand while massaging your stiff neck with the other. You must have slept longer than you thought.

“Thank you,” you say when you’ve finished eating. “For this. And the ride. And...the rest. How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” says the Mandalorian without turning around.

That doesn’t sit well with you. “It’s not my custom to accept things – or to give them away for that matter – for free,” you say.

“The Royals usually pay you well, right?”

You frown. “Yes, but–”

“Reckon they’ll pay their due this time around?”

“Probably not,” you admit.

“Right. And in part, that’s because of me. So let’s just call it even, shall we?”

You’re not thrilled with this solution; you don't like trading favors, especially when the tally starts getting high. However, you’ve already made your mind up to break it off clean with the Royals after they decided to leave you stranded on Cantonica without a second thought. That in turn will mean a long term loss of income, and even if you’ve got some cash saved up, you’ll need to be more careful in the future. 

“Fine,” you say at length. “Just don’t go bringing it up the next time you need me to sew your fingers back on, alright?”

“No, Ma,” he says dryly.

* * *

He drops you off at the beach not far from the settlement, and you sigh in relief as your slippers sink into the warm sand. You don't even mind the way it trickles between the straps to grate against your toes; you’re just glad to be home. You turn back to look at the Mandalorian who’s standing in the cargo hold.

“Want to restock anything while you’re here?” you yell over the engine noise. “Food, water, med supplies…”

“I’m already late for a business meeting,” he calls back. 

You shrug. “Goodbye then. And thanks again!”

He raises his hand in a greeting before closing the flap and taking off again.

* * *

It’s another few days before you learn the fate of the Royals. A tradeswoman from one of the nearby villages brings the news along with her monthly bundle of dried sunblood.

“Didn’t rightly know if I’d find you here, Ma,” she says as you count out the payment for the herbs. “None of the others ever came back, you see.”

“I took a...different ship,” you say delicately.

“And the rest of ‘em left the other day, took right off as soon as they found out that the duke had been captured. Rumor has it he wasn’t the only one with a gambling problem…”

“Captured, you say?” you ask, pausing with the credits still in your hand. “Not killed then?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” says the tradeswoman, eyeing the cash eagerly. 

You carefully add another couple of credits to the stack, push it towards the woman, and raise an eyebrow. “What else have you heard?”

The tradeswoman sweeps the money up and tucks it inside a hidden pocket. “That the duke was captured on Cantonica by a Mandalorian bounty hunter,” she says in a low voice.

“Oh, really,” you say flatly, already regretting spending the extra credit.

“Froze him in carbonite and delivered him to the Hutts,” the tradeswoman says sagely. Then she gestures at the sunblood and asks, “Same again next month?”

But you’re not listening, momentarily lost in thought. _Carbonite_. If what the woman says is true, the Duke had been on board the ship with them the whole time. And you had practically led the Mandalorian right to him after all… You can’t help but snort at the very _cheek_.

“Well?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” you say. Then you pause, your hand moving to the purse. It already feels considerably lighter. You smile politely. “Actually, I’ll let you know.”

* * *

The next time you meet the Mandalorian is only a few weeks later. 

You wake in the middle of the night from the sound of a ship making a rough landing nearby, and you barely have time to get dressed before there’s a heavy knock on the door. When you open it, the Mandalorian practically falls inside, landing in a heap on the floor. He says nothing, simply lies there breathing hard. Not that you need him to tell you what’s wrong – it’s abundantly clear from his cape and backplate, both torn to shreds and exposing the inexpertly dressed, deep gashes across his back.

“What’s happened?” you ask, reaching down to help pull him to his feet again. _Stars_ , _he’s heavy_.

“Nexu,” he manages, then stumbles towards your bed.

“No, no, not in _here_!” you say, but he’s already fallen on top of it, belly down, and is now seemingly unconscious.

“Damn it,” you hiss before hurrying out to the med hut to fetch the portable kit.

You’ve heard of Nexu cats and the damage they can do to their prey, and as you drag a light over to the bed, you fear the worst. On closer inspection, the wounds themselves aren’t too bad – the lack of treatment is the real problem. You remove the soggy bandages carefully, scrunching your nose up at the faint smell of festering flesh. He must have gone days like this. What’s worse, he’s burning up with fever.

“Did this yourself, did you?” you mutter as you pick off the last strip of cloth.

He’s certainly out cold, because he doesn’t even flinch when you proceed to pour smolderwine on the wounds to burn off whatever’s growing there. Before you do anything else, you give him an antibiotic shot – an expensive but in this case necessary luxury. Then you settle down for a night of needlework.

Hours later, when you’re finally done, you consider his armor. By necessity, you’ve cut away the back of his shirt, and while you can’t see any signs of wounds elsewhere on his body, he could clearly do with a good wash - not to mention the importance of getting that temperature down. Carefully, you try to pry off his shoulderpad, and out of nowhere, he shoots his arm back to grab your wrist.

“No,” he mumbles.

“Mother, you scared me,” you whisper, your heart pounding hard. Then you raise your voice. “You’re boiling in that armor, Mandalorian. It needs to come off.”

“I said no.”

“I won’t touch the helmet.”

He grunts at that, and the grip on your wrist slips, his hand falling forward again. You take that as a yes. 

It’s heavy work, but you manage to strip him down to his underwear, then rinse the sweat and dirt off his arms and legs with warm, soapy water, all the while lamenting the mess it’s making of your sheets. You leave his chest, unwilling to move him with the wounds only just stitched together. 

As you dry him off, you try not to think too hard about what you’re looking at, but there’s no denying that his body is easy on the eyes. His arms and legs are strong in a way that you suspect relies on combat training that’s put into practice on a regular basis. That and wearing the armor all day long. You keep your promise and leave his helmet alone, but when you dry his neck, you catch a glimpse of his hair; ordinary, brown hair that curls slightly at the edges. You tear your eyes away and go to fetch a clean blanket, but the fleeting image is already etched into your mind.

It’s already midday when you finally slump down on a mattress on the floor. It’s been a tense few hours, but the antibiotics are clearly working; his fever has broken and his breathing seems lighter, and you allow yourself the deep, dark sleep of exhaustion.

* * *

When you wake up, he’s sitting up on the bed, laboriously bent over to fasten his leg armor.

“What are you doing?” you say, scrambling up off the floor. “You’ll rip the stitches, you fool!”

“I need to get going,” he grunts before standing up with considerable effort.

“Hey, just last night you were _dying_ ,” you say, grabbing hold of his shoulders to force him to sit down again.

“Clearly whatever you did worked wonders.”

He reaches for the blanket on the bed with a wince and wraps himself in it.

“Do you feel cold?” you ask, worried. You put your hand on his neck, but it feels cool enough.

“No,” he says, stumbling to his feet again. “I need a new shirt. From the ship. And your payment. How much do I owe you?”

You shake your head. “You can’t travel like this.”

“I can and I will,” he says stubbornly. “Someone out there is _very_ interested in getting hold of me. Eventually they will. But I’m not going to let them find me here.”

“At least let me redress the wounds,” you say, turning around after him as he limps through the door. “It’d be a crying shame if you died from a ripped stitch after all of this, don’t you think?”

He stops in the doorway. A moment later he sighs. “Alright.”

“In the med hut this time, please,” you add testily.

He keeps himself wrapped in the blanket the whole time you prepare new bandages and salve, and as you work you remind yourself that being partially undressed probably bothers him, more so than usual. In your years as a healer, you’ve seen it all and more, but to someone not used to being seen…

When he shrugs out of the blanket and lies belly down on the bed, you keep your head respectfully turned aside, pretending like you haven't already seen him stripped to his underwear. Then, of course, you _have_ to look. After all it’s just a back; all humans have them, you muse as you unwrap the bandages. 

It just so happens that this one is an especially fine example.

You shake that thought from your head and get to work

* * *

“How much?” he asks when you’re done.

“What do you think it’s worth?” you reply automatically. 

“Would you prefer cash, or something else? I have some bachani seeds…”

The seeds sound enticing, but they’d take years to cultivate. “Cash is fine,” you say.

In the end, he gives you both.

* * *

The years pass, and you scrape by. News of strange tidings elsewhere in the galaxy reach you now and then, the Empire’s End sending shockwaves reaching far into the Outer Rim territories. With the Royal castle long abandoned and looted, you rely on the steady trickle of work coming in from the nearby villages and the odd outlander traveler. You deliver babies, treat colds, drain viper bites and set bones straight. More often than not, you’re paid in grain or meat. More often than not, the payments are small, but an oath is an oath, even though your savings are dwindling.

Late one summer, one of the villages sends a small delegation to the settlement. They bring a child of eight or nine with them. She’s called Cricket, and as of a week back, she’s an orphan.

“The sea took him, Ma,” says one of the villagers. “The father, that is. And the mother’s long gone. She can cook, Ma. And she’s good with plants. Knows the names, knows where they grow.”

You look the child up and down. She’s a bit on the thin side, but she raises her chin stoically, doing her best to hold up to the scrutiny. You haven't really thought about an apprentice yet – you’re still young, after all. But fate is as always its own mistress.

“Why Cricket?” you ask.

“She was small as a baby, Ma,” says a woman. “And she kept her mother up at night.”

“You don’t look smaller than normal,” you say to the child.

“Well, I grew, Ma,” says Cricket.

“She can stay,” you decide.

* * *

When you meet the Mandalorian again, it’s been so long that you’ve given up any hope of ever seeing him again. You haven't presumed him dead, exactly, and you think about him from time to time; when you comb the beach for washed up seaweed, or when you happen to spot the ruined dress from Canto Bight, hanging at the very back of your sparse wardrobe. You’ve thought of making something useful out of the silk, but whenever you make your mind up about it, something always seems to stay your hand.

And then one night, with Cricket already asleep in the apprentice’s hut and the fire nearly faded, he arrives. On foot, and with a strange, egg-shaped pod trailing behind him. When you spot him, your heart soars. It takes you by surprise, how happy you are to see him, and to find him seemingly healthy and not half-dying.

“Mandalorian,” you greet him, trying your best to curb the bubbling feeling of excitement – you don't want to come across as a giddy girl.

“It’s been a while,” he says, and your heart swells when you imagine you can hear him smile under that helmet.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” you say, eyes flitting over his armor.

You vaguely know of the legendary beskar steel of the Mandalorians, and it looks like he’s covered from head to toe in it.

“I’m getting by,” he says modestly. “How are things here on Rion? Are you keeping well?”

You suddenly feel self-conscious. The robes you’re wearing happen to be some of your oldest, patched several times over, and you smoothly move your arm to cover a fraying hem. 

“Same as you,” you say with a lopsided smile. “Getting by. But enough pleasantries now. Sit, and tell me why you’re here.”

“I’ll get right to the point,” says the Mandalorian, joining you by the glowing embers. “I need your help.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t look ill, or injured.”

“I’m not. But there’s something that I need to do in a nearby system. And while I’m gone, I need someone to keep him safe.”

He nods at the pod, hovering nearby. _Him_. The word catches in your chest. You hadn’t pegged him for a family man. You look at the floating sphere; its lid is firmly shut.

“Your child?” you ask.

“Not mine,” he says, and you exhale slowly. 

He fiddles with something on his wrist, and the pod glides closer, coming to a halt next to the Mandalorian. He pushes a button on the front of it, and it opens. Inside is a strange little creature, green and fuzzy-haired, looking all at once newborn and ancient. It appears to be sleeping.

“What is that?” you whisper.

“I’m not sure. But he’s in my care for now, and where I’m going… It’s not safe for him.”

You nod slowly. “How long will you be gone?” you ask.

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple days at the most.”

“And if your mission fails?”

“It won’t,” he says.

You study the child. Something about it makes you uneasy. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s as if the little creature harbors something – something big and potentially dangerous.

“It’s an unusual request,” you say hesitantly.

“I’ll pay you well, of course.”

That seals the deal, and you sigh in defeat. “Fine. I’ve already got one Womp-rat running around, making a mess of things. How much difference can another one make?”

The Mandalorian seems to go stiff for a second. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice strangely formal. “I didn’t know.”

“She’s not mine,” you explain. “She lost her parents, so I took her on as an apprentice.”

You’re not sure, but you think you can see his shoulders drop a fraction.

“A foundling,” he says, almost wistfully. “Well, she came to a good place.”

You lean forward to look into the pod again, and as if the child somehow senses your presence, he opens his eyes and looks sleepily back at you. His _eyes_. They’re huge and black, like forest tarns – calm and treacherously deep.

“Hey there,” you say quietly.

“Listen, kid,” says the Mandalorian, his voice immediately shifting, becoming stern and fatherly. “See this nice lady here? She’s a friend, and you’ll be staying with her for a little while. You’ll do as she says, okay? And I don’t want to hear about any funny business when I get back.”

The little creature sits up and makes a noise that falls somewhere between suspicious and disappointed.

“It’s only for a couple of days,” the Mandalorian goes on. “And she’s got another kid here. You can play together.”

The child turns back to look at you dubiously before sinking back down in its little pod and closing its eyes. A thousand questions that you’re burning to ask the Mandalorian crowd your brain, and you pluck one from the top of the pile.

“What does he eat?”

The Mandalorian sighs. “ _Everything_.”

* * *

Naturally, the child takes to Cricket like a Laa takes to a swamp pool, trailing after her on his short little legs as she goes about her morning chores. For the first couple of hours, Cricket feigns annoyance, pointedly rolling her eyes as the child puts an already washed and drying bowl back into the soapy dishwater, or sighing loudly when he runs in front of her feet on her way to stoke the fire. Soon enough, though, the chores are forgotten as the two engage in some intricate make-believe involving sorting Cricket’s sizable collection of glass beads into piles and trading them back and forth. The rules of the game seem unclear, but at least they’re keeping busy.

You make the tea, even though that’s Cricket’s responsibility now, then you go into the med hut to take stock. You listen with half an ear to the children outside while you work, to Cricket’s incessant babbling and the wordless noises the little one responds with. Your initial misgivings seem unfounded, you reflect. He’s just a child, after all, and you feel almost silly thinking back to the unease you felt last night.

The silence is what makes you pause halfway through counting a stack of bluereed. You frown, an odd sense of dread creeping along your spine. Then you drop the herbs back in the drawer and hurry to the door. You push it open and peer outside. Cricket and the child are still where you left them, but what you see next takes your breath away; a narrow, impossibly high, tower of beads is swaying between them. It’s as tall as the child, and it looks like he’s the one keeping them in place, slowly moving his little hands back and forth through the air. Cricket takes another bead from a pile on the ground and carefully places it on top of the tower. It wobbles, but it stays.

Then Cricket seems to sense you looking at her and turns her head around. The child does the same, and with a crystalline rustle, the beads all crash to the ground and roll off in every possible direction.

“Ma!” Cricket yells excitedly. “Did you _see_ that?”

“I did,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. You have to suppress the urge to run over there and sweep Cricket into your arms as if she were a baby that you need to keep safe.

“It’s _magic_ ,” Cricket says while she picks beads from the ground, chasing the ones that are still rolling around with nimble hands. “He can do real magic!”

“Maybe so,” you say, eyes trained on the strange child. 

He meets your gaze, and the quiet force that those dark eyes hold shakes you to the core.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s the evening of the second day, and the Mandalorian has returned as promised. Now you’re standing at the edge of the forest, watching Cricket boil bandages while the child follows her every move intently.

The Mandalorian shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it was necessary,” he says. “He usually only does it when there’s an emergency.”

“He scared me at first,” you say. “And still does, a little.”

You’d had trouble sleeping last night, waking again and again to check that the child was still asleep in its pod. You needn’t have worried; It barely moved an inch all night, seemingly exhausted after a day of running after Cricket on those short little legs.

“He’s not _dangerous_ ,” says the Mandalorian. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Not to friends, at least.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He pays you well – more than well, the nature of your service considered. It’s not the place of a healer to question the size of the payment, so you don't. It’ll keep your stores afloat for weeks to come, with a bit left to spare for yourself. You suspect he knows this, and that thought sits like a hot lump of shame in your belly, even as you and Cricket wave goodbye to the odd couple. The pod floats backwards steadily by the Mandalorian’s side as he walks away, the child looking back at you, his huge eyes gleaming until they’re swallowed up by the darkness.

* * *

When you next meet the Mandalorian, he comes alone, and he’s badly injured.

You and Cricket hear the ship coming from miles away, and the landing it makes in a nearby clearing is rough, shaking the ground. 

“Ready a bed,” you say to Cricket before sprinting off towards the ship.

You reach it just as the Mandalorian stumbles out from the cargo hold, and you rush forward to sling his arm around your shoulder to support him.

“It’s fine,” he says and tries to shake himself loose.

“Is that so,” you say between clenched teeth as he slumps against you.

“I can walk,” he insists, after which his leg promptly gives in and he topples forward onto the ground, almost bringing you with him.

It takes a minute to get him upright again, and while you struggle together, you make stray observations; the leg armor on his left shin is caked with crusted blood, but more worryingly, the thick cloth he wears around his neck seems disintegrated somehow, revealing what looks almost like burns.

“What happened?” you ask as you start walking again, more carefully this time.

“Angry blurrg,” he grunts.

“A blurrg did that?” you say, staring at his neck.

“No, the...leg. This was a stone mite.” He gestures at his helmet.

“Stone mite?”

“It’s an...insect. Eats metal.”

This jogs an ancient memory, from the years when you were still an apprentice with Ma Eyla; a man getting a bite wound treated, his skin severely burnt from the saliva of some outlandish, droid-like bug.

“Acid?” you ask.

The Mandalorian makes an affirmative noise.

You shiver. Burns need to be tended to quickly to prevent scarring, and judging by the state of his leg, he’s been leaving it untreated for hours, maybe days.

“How long ago was this?” you ask.

“The stone mite? Not long. Couple of hours ago.” He stops for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. “It was in my bunk when I was going to bed, and I shot it at close range. It...exploded.”

“Were you wearing that?” you ask carefully, meaning the helmet.

“...No.”

In other words, it blew up in his face.

“Lucky you were in the area,” you mumble.

When you reach the settlement, Cricket is standing by the fire, jumping nervously from foot to foot.

“What can I do, Ma?” she asks.

“Is the bed ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve done enough, girl. Keep the fire going, and make sure you knock if you want anything, understand?”

“Yes, Ma.”

You help the Mandalorian inside and up on the cot that Cricket has prepared, then hurry over to the sink to wash your hands before inspecting his leg.

“This will heal just fine,” you say after carefully lifting the cloth to peek at the wounds. “But that’s not what’s worrying me right now. Am I correct in thinking the acid from that stone mite splashed onto your skin? Since you weren’t wearing your helmet.”

The Mandalorian makes no sign of having heard you, just lies there in stubborn silence.

“Well?” you ask.

More silence. 

“It needs to come off,” you say decisively.

“No,” he says, making to get off the bed. He makes the most restrained of whimpers as his leg protests, and then sinks back down in resignation. 

“But isn’t that why you came here?” you ask. “To me?”

The Mandalorian still says nothing, and you stay quiet, waiting him out. The seconds drag on, each more precious than then next, but then he finally lifts his hands towards the helmet, slowly, as if fighting against an unseen force.

“A moment, please,” you say. “I’m not ready.”

Quickly, you gather up clean tools and other necessities, then hurry over to fetch a jellied sponge wrapped in honeyvine from the cooler. After a second’s hesitation, you grab another one. They’re dearly bought, but so is time right now, and you don't want to go fumbling around once you’ve started.

You wash your hands one last time and then return to the Mandalorian. You pick up a blindfold from the table, and as you start tying it, you say, “Now.”

It’s been too long since you last worked blindfolded, and you’re almost shocked by how your other senses heighten immediately, the smell of metal and blood and untended wounds pricking your nose. You can hear a slow, soft dragging noise and then comes a distinctive and loud clang as the helmet drops to the floor. 

“Alright,” comes an unfamiliar voice. His, of course, you realize after a heartbeat’s hesitation.

You set to work right away, skimming your fingertips gently across his neck and chin, and up over his cheeks. _It’s not so bad_ , you think, or at least wish. Your hands tremble slightly as you assess the spread of the burn. The acid seems to have splashed up against the sides of his face, sparing his mouth, nose and eyes for the most part. The skin is already blistered and smooth, and you grab a jug of water from the table.

“Hold still,” you say, starting to carefully rinse the acidic residue off. 

His skin is slippery, almost oily to the touch, and it takes several refills of the jug before it feels clean again. You know you’re done when the skin catches against your fingers.

“This is infused with dusk jelly,” you say as you unwrap the sponge. “It’ll feel very cold.”

“From..the fish?” he groans, then hisses - in pain or perhaps relief - as you stick the wobbly pad against the right side of his neck and face and begin unwrapping the second packet.

“It’s technically not a fish… But yes.”

“Smells like fish. Smells _worse_ than fish.”

You can’t help but smile – a patient complaining about their treatment is usually a good sign. 

“There,” you say after the second sponge is in place. “I’ve done what I can for now. That needs to sit for an hour at the very least. Enough time for me to look at that leg of yours.”

There’s a pause while you grope around on the table for the sturdy square of clean linen cloth you prepared.

“I’ll need my eyes for this part,” you say matter of factly.

“But…”

“Cover yourself with this,” you say, feeling around for his arm and then handing him the cloth.

There is another long pause, and another reluctant "Alright", and you remove the blindfold.

Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to his face, well covered beneath the cloth. It's folded double and thick enough not to reveal even the slightest of his features. You know more about what he looks like from tending to his wounds than from what you can see now.

You shudder a little. This is a sight usually reserved for those few dreadful days when you’ve lost a patient. If it weren't for the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest, he would seem altogether dead. 

Then you fetch your scissors, swiftly start cutting open his pants, and get busy tending to his leg.

"It's done," you say after what feels like an age.

The wound on his left shin is cleaned, sewn and dressed, and numerous smaller cuts and bruises have been seen to. You can feel your hair sticking to your forehead, your apron is stained with blood, and your back is cold with drying sweat.

"Can I put it back on?" asks the Mandalorian, his voice muffled beneath the cloth.

He doesn't say what, but you know.

"No," you say. "I need to dress the burns as well. But I need air first."

With that, you wipe your hands clean and walk out of the med hut and into the cool night. Cricket is squatting by the fireplace, poking at the glowing embers with a stick. 

“How’d it go?” she says, getting to her feet nimbly when she hears you coming out.

“As well as it could,” you say, closing your eyes and inhaling the fresh, crisp air in slow, deep breaths. “Don’t go in there,” you add.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Not now you weren’t.” you say, opening your eyes again to look at the child. “But you don’t _ever_ go in there. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma,” Cricket mumbles before returning to the fire.

“Put the kettle on, will you?” you say in a softer voice. “I’ll be done soon.”

Back inside the med hut, you prepare the table once more, this time with a bowl of thick, creamy salve and strips of bandage.

“What now?” says the Mandalorian. His voice has a pleasant timbre. Deep, but smooth.

“Hopefully the blisters will have stopped swelling, so now we have to keep your skin from drying out and scarring,” you say evenly while once again putting the blindfold on. “I’ll remove your cover now,” you warn.

“Wait,” he says, and his arm, suddenly flung up, collides with yours as you reach down. You stop, and wait. “Have you…”

Instead of replying, you take his hand and guide it to your face, lets him run his fingers over the cloth, lets him feel how snugly it fits. You can feel his arm relaxing. Then you reach down again.

“It’ll be a while before you can wear the helmet again,” you say as you remove the jellied sponges and wipe his face clean.

He hisses, even though your touch is feather light. “How long?” he grunts.

“You won’t like the answer.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two _weeks_? Not possible.”

You feel around on the table for a free spot and then drop the soaked rag you’re holding. 

“One week to make sure your skin doesn’t slide off your face,” you say calmly. “Another to minimize the scarring. And then we’ll see. These are no ordinary wounds, Mandalorian. The acid eats into the skin, and the salve needs to be applied regularly until the process stops.”

Some word slips him – probably a curse – in a language you’re not familiar with.

“Mm,” you say noncommittally. You’re not sure how you feel about this either; business is always slow these days, but he’ll be occupying the med hut for the foreseeable future. But as he has his way, you have yours. 

* * *

Normally Cricket is the one bringing food to the patients, but you don't trust her. You don’t trust her not to drop the tray while blindfolded, you don’t trust her not to look if she’s not wearing one. Not because Cricket would do any such thing maliciously, but because she is a child, and you remember being one yourself all too well. 

You quickly establish a routine with the Mandalorian. You knock, wait for him to cover himself and call out for you, and then enter. You put his food down, check his leg and then put the blindfold on to examine and redress the burns on his neck and face. You exchange a word or two while you work, and then you leave him. Once a day you leave a bowl of hot water for him to wash himself in private. You thank the moons he’s able to take some care of himself; not that you would have minded, but you know he would have.

On the fifth day, just as you’re putting the finishing touches on his bandages, he grabs hold of your arm very gently. You pause, waiting for him to speak.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

You can feel his fingers sliding down past your wrist until he's holding your hand. His grip is soft but firm and warm. Out of instinct, you squeeze back, and you stay like that for a while.

"You're welcome," you say, and your voice is a little more unsteady than you would have liked.

"I’m grateful for your help. For your...friendship.”

 _I took an oath_ , you want to say. And at the same time you want to say, _me too_. Instead you silently squeeze his hand again before collecting your things and shuffling blindly towards the door.

* * *

You have trouble sleeping that night. Something about his touch haunts you, awakens something in you that you thought you’d left behind. 

In the past you’ve enjoyed connections, most of them fleeting. Such things had developed naturally, at times even with patients. No code of honor or oath forbade it, and it changed nothing about either treatment or payment. Healing was work, sex was pleasure. But it’s been a long time, years even, since you shared your bed with anyone. 

You turn on your side and stare unseeing into the darkness. The feeling of his hand on yours seems to linger on your skin, like a faint burn. You mustn’t allow yourself to think about him like that, you tell yourself. He’s a Mandalorian, for one. In truth you don't know how, or even if, they take their pleasure. To initiate something is unthinkable, and yet you spend the best part of the night thinking about it.

* * *

He is healing well; better than you had ever dared hope, and on the eighth day, you tell him so. Beneath your fingers, his face tenses slightly in what can only be a faint smile.

“Good,” he says. “How long until…”

“I don’t know,” you interrupt him as you rub the salve on his cheeks. “Ask me again in a couple of days.”

“A couple of days,” he murmurs.

Now it’s your time to smile. “Patience, Mandalorian,” you say.

Even though it’s not strictly necessary, you smear a thin layer of ointment on the unburnt parts of his face, letting your hands wander over his brow and the curve of his nose. You try to piece the clues together, to imagine his features, but every time a clear picture starts forming it slips from your mind as easily as rain through outstretched hands. 

* * *

That evening, he doesn’t answer when you knock. After another attempt, and impatiently waiting for a reply, you step inside. You keep your eyes trained on the ground and call out:

“Mandalorian?”

There is no reply, and you carefully lift your gaze. The bed is empty, and now your heart begins beating hard.

“Hello?” you try, a little louder.

You put the tray down in its usual place by the bed and scan the room, half afraid you’ll actually see him, see his face. When you turn back to the bed, you can hear the back door creaking open behind you.

“Go away, Cricket!” you snap.

“Cover your eyes.”

It’s the Mandalorian, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you fumble for the blindfold. Your heart is still racing, hands trembling from...you don't even know what from.

“Where were you?” you ask, tying the cloth behind your head angrily.

“I needed fresh air,” he says simply. “To stretch my legs. There was no one around.”

You draw a breath, ready to give him an earful, but something about the way you can hear him dragging his foot is wrong.

“You’re limping,” you say.

“With this leg, what did you expect?”

“Your _other_ leg,” you say pointedly. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s nothing,” says the Mandalorian. 

You can hear him shifting onto the bed. “Alright”.

You rip the blindfold off and stride over to the bed. Without further ado, you untie the laces on his rough canvas pants and yank them down. On his right thigh is an angry welt. It’s a thin cut - one you cleaned that first night but didn’t think much of, you remember. It’s healed badly. You grow cold, then hot with anger. With yourself, but you take it out on him.

“How long has it been like this?” you scold.

“A couple of days,” says the Mandalorian, his shoulders shifting in a little shrug. “It’s getting better.”

“It most certainly _isn’t,_ ” you say before walking over to the cabinet and begin crushing herbs in a mortar. _Stupid, blind woman_ , you think to yourself. It's not like you to let something like this slip past you.

You treat him in stubborn silence, ignoring his groans and hisses as you drain the wound before smearing sunblood paste over it. It’s only when you’re wrapping a tight bandage around his thigh that you notice it - the vague bulge in his underwear. Your eyes flit up to his face, as always covered. Then you glance down again, your treacherous, treacherous heart speeding up. It might be nothing. It’s difficult to tell, but it most certainly _seems_ like…

“What’s wrong?” the Mandalorian asks.

You snap out of your reverie, and quickly finish fastening the bandage. “Nothing,” you say, tugging at his pants. “Pull these up and let’s have a look at those burns, shall we?”

“A feel, I should hope,” he says, and the last thing you see before picking up the blindfold is his hands, tying the laces of his pants again.

“Yes, yes,” you say, covering your eyes once more. “A slip of the tongue.”

The whole time you tend to his burns, you’re distracted. Your fingers can't seem to find their way anymore; you fumble with the bandages, and you knock a jug of water to the floor with a crash. You curse between clenched teeth, and the Mandalorian says nothing. When you’re finally done, you take a deep breath and shake your hair back. 

You think about his underwear.

“This wound,” you say, your hands patting his side and finding their way to his thigh. “Was it from the blurrg?”

“Not exactly. It threw me into some thorny bush.”

You let your hands linger as you feign contemplation. It doesn’t matter where the gash came from; it’s cleaned and dressed and will heal. And yet you linger. When you finally move, you let your arm brush ever so lightly over his hip, and-

You freeze, pulling your hand away. It's unmistakable this time. He's unmistakably...firm. For a moment, a battle of wills rages in your chest. Surely this must mean something. But should you act on it? You lower your hand slowly, biting your lip.

“What–” the Mandalorian begins.

You flinch. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” you say, your stomach plummeting as the shameful realization that he’s been watching you this whole time hits you. You curl your fingers into a fist and pull it towards your chest, cheeks suddenly aflame. “I’m sorry. I’ll go now,” you say, making to leave.

“No," he hurries to say. "I should be the one apologising.”

You turn back and draw yourself up, gathering your last scraps of dignity. “It’s fine. You're a man. It happens. Sometimes for no particular reason." _Mother_ , _you’re rambling._

He says nothing, does nothing for a long while, and in the silence your breathing comes unnaturally loud. Then you feel his hand on your arm, warm fingers encircling it, his thumb gently sweeping over the smooth inside of your elbow. Wearing the blindfold has suddenly never felt more restricting. Any move you make will be in the dark, and the sole light guiding your way is his soft but insistent touch on your arm.

But, you think, if this is not a sign, then what is? 

You let your other hand wander back to his hip and up until you feel him, hard through the rough cloth. He still says nothing, but his grip on your arm tightens a little. 

You trace the outline of his cock and then palm him gently. He twitches against your hand, sending a jolt of lust through your arm. Your whole body reacts; your thighs prickle, your heart races in your chest, and you just about manage to stop your mouth from dropping open. It’s been long since you felt a need this sudden, and yet…

 _He is badly hurt, in no shape for anything of the kind,_ you think fleetingly as you sweep your fingers over him. The Mandalorian squeezes your arm again and grunts, and your breath catches in your throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say.

“You’re not,” he says in a strangled voice.

Feeling him, how hard he is, and hearing his ragged breath - it drives you to distraction. You know you should probably stop this right here and now, but you simply cannot resist it. You stroke him through the layers of fabric, listening to his breathing, paying close attention to his restrained squirming to learn what he likes. Something you do, some small touch, makes him whimper, and you do it over and over until he suddenly comes with a drawn out groan, his cock throbbing faintly under your hand.

In the dense silence that follows you can practically hear your own arousal, pounding between your legs. You want nothing more than to have him do the same to you, to bend down and taste his lips, to untie the blindfold and...You feel his hand drop away from your arm and a sudden surge of insecurity washes over you. 

For a split second, you can see the boy by the fire in your mind, as clearly as though it were yesterday, scolding his elder. _Never in front of another_. 

“Thank you,” says the Mandalorian, the sound of his voice startling you.

“My pleasure,” you reply distractedly, even though your own satisfaction is still very much lacking.

You leave the med hut in a daze, your legs moving by muscle memory alone. Outside, the fire is dying down and Cricket is nowhere to be seen. You kick some dirt over the smoldering embers before hurrying inside your own quarters. You don't bother getting undressed, but simply climb up on the bed and rub yourself to relief in a matter of minutes.

* * *

In the days that follow, neither you nor the Mandalorian mention what happened. At first, you wait for him to say something, and when he doesn’t, you don't know how to bring it up. Perhaps he regrets it. Or perhaps he thinks it’s something all healers do to men – he wouldn’t be the first. You spend a whole day working yourself into a temper about that last notion, imagining yourself explaining sternly to him that you are no simple prostitute. But he remains courteous, giving you no cause to suspect he thinks any less of you now.

After a while you almost start to question your own memory. Was it all a strange dream? If it was, it was certainly a vivid one, and it makes your hands tremble when you apply salve to his burns, not to mention how it keeps you up at night. The day when it’s time for him to leave can’t come soon enough, you think as you slip your hand inside your underwear yet again.

But when that day does come, it inevitably feels much too soon.

It’s the twelfth day since he arrived, and after seeing the wound on his leg healed up and in no need of further attention, you tie your blindfold for what you already know is the last time. You sweep your fingers over his face, searching every inch for signs of scarring or blisters. It's all healing well, his skin smooth and supple again, apart from the coarse beard that's starting to grow back.

"It's done," you say finally.

"All of it?"

"All of it." You smile and then add, "You can put it back on now. The helmet."

He doesn't reply, but grabs your hand and holds it in both of his. Then he pulls it to his face, and for a second you don't understand what he's doing, until you feel a softness against your knuckles, and then the gentle tickle of bristly hair as he presses his lips to your hand.

“What do I owe you?” he asks.

 _Nothing_ , you want to say, but that’s not how it works. “What do you think it’s worth?” you say instead.

He’s still holding your hand in his, and now he runs a thumb absentmindedly over your fingers. If he only knew how weak it makes you. You wish he would kiss them again, wish you could see him, to know what he’s thinking. On a whim, you raise your free hand to his face and trail a finger along his bottom lip, and with every second your heart pounds harder.

“Have you ever kissed anyone, Mandalorian?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t reply immediately, but you can hear the breath he draws in hesitation.

“I haven’t,” he says at length.

You bend down, slowly but deliberately. Cupping his chin in your trembling hand you let your lips find his. At first he’s unresponsive, his mouth soft but still. _This was a mistake_ , you think, your heart sinking. But just as you’re about to pull away, he tilts his chin up to chase the kiss. He lets your hand go and moments later you can feel his fingers against your temple, carefully threading through your hair. 

The fire he lights in you is unholy, blazing a trail of lust right through your chest. There’s a whimper from somewhere, and you realize it’s coming from your throat. You catch his lip between yours, let your tongue brush against it ever so fleetingly, and now he’s the one making noises.

And suddenly he’s gone, pulling his face away, leaving you to stumble forward into the void he left behind. You can hear him getting up off the bed.

“I can’t,” he says. “This can’t happen.”

You stand up straight, hot waves of humiliation washing over you.

“Of course,” you say, and you hate the way your voice is close to breaking. “My apologies.”

And with that, you spin around, rip off the blindfold and flee.

Outside, the sun is close to setting, and you half-run into the golden light, following that brightness blindly for several minutes until you reach the sea. The sand is still warm, and you know that the water is warmer still, the summer currents caressing the shoreline for miles this time of year. You untie the laces of your dress and let it pool around your ankles before stepping out of your underwear and into the sea.

You float easily in the salty water, and you let the current carry you several hundred yards along the coast before you get out again. By the time you make it back to your clothes, your skin has dried in the warm breeze and the stars are coming out, appearing one by one in the dark blue sky.

Back at the settlement, Cricket has the fire going, the kettle whistling just as you arrive.

“Did you go for a swim, Ma?” she asks.

“I did. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, Ma. It’s nearly done.”

With that, she disappears into her hut, presumably to finish dinner. You fetch a towel from your own hut, then sit down by the fire to dry your hair. A moment later, the Mandalorian steps outside, for the first time since he arrived in full armor again. He nods silently at you by way of greeting before sitting down on the opposite side of the fire. You squeeze the ends of your hair slowly with the towel and nod back.

The armor is, quite frankly, a relief. You can almost imagine that this is not the same man you’ve treated for the past halfmoon. 

"The sea," he says. "Is it safe to swim in? I could use a bath."

The modulator helps, too.

"For another hour or two," you reply. "Before the tide turns."

Just then, Cricket bursts out of her hut, balancing two steaming bowls in her hands. At the sight of the Mandalorian she freezes, glancing uncertainly at you and then turning back to him.

“Good evening, master,” she says politely, dipping in a quick curtsey. “I’ll fetch another bowl.”

“No need,” he says. “I’ll eat later.”

“Of course, master,” says Cricket before handing you your food and sitting down.

You begin eating in silence, Cricket’s eyes roaming every inch of the Mandalorian; she’s positively buzzing with curiosity, and you can’t help but smile at how much your young self she’s like.

“I recognize this youngling,” says the Mandalorian, looking at Cricket. Before you can answer, he cocks his helmet your way and continues in a mock whisper, “How rude of her that she never introduced us, don’t you think?” 

Cricket’s eyes go wide, a mix of glee and hesitation playing across her face. She looks quickly at you, waiting for your nod before replying.

“I’m Cricket, master. I’m an apprentice. One day I’ll be a healer too.”

“That’s good,” says the Mandalorian. “The world needs more skilled healers like your Ma.”

“Where’s the little one? Did you name him yet?”

“He’s in a safe place. And no, I didn’t. He already had a name. He just didn’t know how to tell me. He’s called Grogu.”

“Grogu,” Cricket beams. “What’s _your_ name?” she asks then.

“Cricket!” you snap. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t know–”

“It’s fine,” the Mandalorian interrupts you. “Din Djarin, at your service,” he says to Cricket. 

Your eyes go wide, and you almost let a gasp slip you. After all these years of you not knowing, he gives his name to _Cricket_ as though it’s nothing.

“Din Djarin,” you whisper to yourself - much too quietly for him to hear, but he turns to you all the same, tilting his helmet in a silent question.

“I have some work to do,” you say, getting to your feet to avoid meeting that quiet gaze. “I’ll be in my hut if you need anything.”

* * *

Later that evening, you go over the books. You’re running dangerously low on supplies, and lower still on cash. You flip the ledger shut with a sigh. At least you’ll have something coming in from the Mandalorian - Din Djarin - soon. _Din Djarin_. You turn it over in your mind, wondering what kind of face goes with such a name. And then, as if answering to that thought, there’s a knock on the door that's clearly not Cricket.

“Come in,” you call over your shoulder, pushing the book away and getting to your feet.

The sight of him in full armor again is still somewhat strange; you’ve grown accustomed to seeing the man underneath. He steps inside and closes the door carefully, then takes out a small metal box.

“Maybe these will do,” he says. “As payment.”

You take the box, looking at it curiously. “What is it?”

The Mandalorian doesn’t reply, so you open it. Inside are two green gemstones that spread a strange, luminescent light in the dim hut. The sight of them makes your stomach drop.

“Nova crystals,” you whisper under your breath. “These are invaluable!”

“No. Just valuable.”

You shake your head. “That’s an understatement. I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head. “I didn’t think that was up to you to decide.”

And it isn’t. You chew your lip, and then nod. “Alright,” you say finally. “Thank you. Din Djarin.”

He tenses a little when you say it, you can tell.

“Your name…” you begin, looking up at his visor where you imagine his eyes are.

“I kept it secret for a long time,” he says. “But then someone found out, and now the Loth-cat’s out of the bag.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He seems lost in thought for a moment. “Things are changing. For better or worse.”

He falls silent, and you suddenly notice how close you’re standing; close enough that you can smell the sea on him, smell his damp hair under the helmet. You feel exposed, afraid that your face will betray you, or worse, your body. He, on the other hand, is enclosed in his armor. It’s impossible to guess his thoughts, his feelings. Something moves at the edge of your vision, and you look down to see his hand half-lifted. Then he drops it again.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he says.

You don't trust your voice, so you simply nod. 

“Good night,” he says.

“And you.”

* * *

The night is warm, and even in just your underclothes and a short nightdress, it’s too hot to get under the covers. Instead you lie back on top of them, your hand inevitably seeking out the needy heat between your legs. You think back to Cantonica, to when he pulled you close and soared through the air, to when you treated his leg and found him hard...But then the memory of the interrupted kiss hits you, still fresh and raw with shame, and you tear your hand away. 

In the end you fall into restless sleep, unsatisfied and aching.

* * *

You wake with a gasp from the feeling of a hand clasped firmly across your eyes. With a yelp, you try to scramble down off the bed, but your limbs are clumsy and heavy with sleep.

“Shh, shh, it’s me.”

It’s him, Din Djarin, and it’s clear from his voice that he’s not wearing his helmet. You force yourself to relax, to slowly shift until you're sitting on the bed, legs dangling off the side and with his hand still covering your eyes.

“What’s going on?” you ask. When he doesn’t reply, you nervously add, “...Din?”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans in and crushes his lips against yours. It’s a desperate, unpracticed kiss, but you give yourself to it willingly and without hesitation. You clash again and again, your experience and his instinct making the kisses grow hot and open-mouthed until he tears himself away, breathing hard. For a second you think he’s going to leave you like that again, but then he presses something into your hand. It’s a blindfold.

“Cover your eyes,” he says. “Please.”

He moves his hand away, and you keep your eyes closed and tie it quickly, and yet you've barely finished tightening the knot before he tangles his fingers in your hair and assaults your lips again. Depraved of your sight, you start exploring him with your hands, letting them roam his back and his broad shoulders before you find the warm skin of his neck beneath the collar of his shirt, find the unruly hair you've brushed against once or twice and since then dreamed of twisting around your fingers. You do it now, and you're rewarded with a low groan. You smile against his lips, and then slide one hand down around to his chest and further…

“Wait,” says Din, taking your hand in his.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. But I think it's my turn to…"

He trails off and puts his hands on your thighs, not ungently but firmly enough to make it perfectly clear what he’s after. You're only too happy to oblige, shimmying your nightdress up and parting your knees to let him come closer, and when he puts his hand on you it sends shocks of lust through your body, making your legs tense up in anticipation. After all of your efforts trying to suppress it, Din could have lit the smoldering fire in your belly with a simple word – now you feel ready to combust.

There’s little finesse in how he works you, running his fingers roughly over your underwear. Perhaps he has only the vaguest idea of how to please a woman, but just being touched by him at all after days – maybe years, if you're honest with yourself – of yearning is almost enough for you to come apart right there and then. Almost.

“Sit down,” you say breathlessly.

“Why?” he asks, his hand growing still.

“Because I need you to.”

He lets out a short breath, almost as if he’s annoyed, or perhaps impatient, and you wish for the hundredth time that you could see his face. But he does what he’s asked; he pulls his hand away, and a second later you can feel the mattress sagging to your left as he sits down beside you. You grab his shoulder and swing your leg across his lap to straddle him.

“Yes,” you sigh when you feel him, feel his hard cock even through the layers of cloth separating you.

Rocking against him feels divine, and he matches your pace, jerking his hips up as you grind down. His hands have wandered down to cup your behind, and you grab one of them and place it on your chest. He squeezes you experimentally through the thin fabric, and when your nipple tightens under his fingers he curses under his breath.

You're close now, your arousal soaking your underwear to the point where it grates against him in the most delicious way. And yet you want more. 

“Touch me again,” you say.

He lets your breast go and slips his hand down between you. Quickly, you pull your underwear aside and moments later, you feel him there, exploring you cautiously. You guide his hand, helping him push two fingers inside you. 

_Stars_ , you're wet.

As you sink down on his hand, he drags his teeth down your neck and shoulder, making your nerve endings sing, but it's the noise he makes that tips you over the edge – his short, restrained moans, like he’s trying his very hardest not to lose control. That and the way he fills you up _just right_ , and the second your labia bump against his knuckles, you come. In wave after wave around his fingers, with words tumbling haphazardly from your lips - fragments of a prayer, curses, and his name, _Din_ , _Din_ , _Din_ , whispered into his ear.

As you come down from your high, he holds you tight and unmoving, his deep, deliberate breaths interrupted now and again by the faint aftershocks of your orgasm. Then he pulls his hand away, drawing a whine from you at the sudden emptiness he leaves behind. In a haze, you feel yourself rolled over by strong arms until you're lying on your back on the bed, still out of breath and your pulse racing. With the blindfold snug across your eyes, you can’t tell what he’s doing, but there’s a rustle of cloth and after a few moments you feel his hands on your hips again, this time hooking his fingers in the lining of your underwear.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe, helping him push the garment down past your knees before unceremoniously kicking it off.

You feel his hand on your thigh again, and when he settles between your legs, you tilt your hips up to meet him, and… _Stars, Mother Moon and all that’s holy, he’s inside you._ He stays still for just a moment, breathing. When he finally starts moving, he doesn’t hold back, pushing into you over and over, setting off new tremors in your core until you suddenly come again, gripping his shoulders hard and biting back a scream. Din mumbles something unintelligible, and then slams against you one last time before slumping forward and spilling inside you, his chest heaving against yours as he presses kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your neck.

* * *

Afterwards, you’re lying on the narrow bed, Din on his side and almost flush against you to fit. He’s trailing endless, slow patterns on your belly, hips and thighs with his fingertips, as though he can’t get enough of your skin. He circles your bellybutton almost distractedly, then drums his fingers low on your stomach.

“Is there any risk…” he starts.

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’m a healer and a midwife, Din. There’ll be no children unless I want them.”

“Good,” he says, sounding relieved. “Not that you wouldn’t make a good mother,” he hastens to add. “You would. It’s just… I grew up without my father. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone else.”

You grew up an orphan too, as all apprentices do, but you keep your tongue. It’s clear that for him, it still hurts. You seek out his arm with your fingers and caress it, steady and strong even when relaxed, and he hums contentedly.

“I can’t stay here,” he says at length. It almost sounds like he’s saying it to convince himself more than anything else.

“I know.” You laugh softly. “Of course I know. Even if things...escalated.”

You can feel his chest jumping in a short, silent laugh too.

“You know, _this_ ,” he says, and then pauses to catch your lips in a languid kiss, “is actually a far greater sin than the other thing.”

That sparks an idea in you, and the more you think about it, the more enticing it seems.

“Did you wear your helmet?” you ask. “When you came here.”

“I did.”

“Put it on then.”

You don't have to ask him twice. He rolls off the bed in one smooth movement, and then you can hear him rummaging around briefly.

“Alright,” he says, his voice now distorted and metallic.

You untie the blindfold slowly, savoring the moment, and then turn on the bedside lamp, flooding the hut with golden light. The sight of him makes your heart jump. The combination of a bare chest and that helmet has a certain...effect on you. Maybe it’s the way you can somehow tell he’s looking at you appreciatively, just by the way he slightly tilts his head. Or maybe it’s simply the broad chest, the strong arms, and the enticing slope of a line that begins at his hip and disappears into his underwear.

“Come back to bed,” you say.

And he does.

* * *

He gets up before the sun the next morning. He thinks you’re still sleeping, but he’s wrong. You’re not usually a light sleeper, but no matter how carefully he climbs out of bed, his intentions of quietly slipping out were ruined the moment his breathing turned shallow from waking, rousing you in turn. You keep your eyes closed, face firmly turned to the wall, listening to him gather up his clothes. Moments later, you hear him stepping softly up to the bed. Then you feel a gentle pressure on your shoulder. 

It's a kiss, his lips lingering there, his breath hot on your skin.

It takes every ounce of self control in you to not stir, to not let your even breathing stutter. If you turn around now, you'll see him - all of him - in the grey pre-dawn light. For all you know, you’d end his path as a Mandalorian with a single look at his face, the face you’ve spent hours, days, years imagining.

You wonder briefly why he's taking this risk.

Before you can finish that trail of thought, the moment has passed and you can hear him putting the helmet back on.

You wait until you hear the door close before you open your eyes. 

A few minutes later, you step outside, dressed for a day of beachcombing. Cricket is standing by the ashes of last night’s fire, looking to the distant clouds at the ship that rises steadily, catching the first rays of sun on its battered hull.

“Do you think he’ll be back?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” you say - an answer that is painfully earnest.

“I liked him.”

“Come on,” you say, handing Cricket a basket. “The tide’s on its way out.”


End file.
